


Party Animal

by inkfiction



Series: Bleighton prompts [6]
Category: Gossip Girl RPF
Genre: Archiving previous works, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfiction/pseuds/inkfiction
Summary: Blake has to counter a very drunk Leighton. Blake POV.





	Party Animal

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction. I own none of these very real people.

_A/N: This was begun such a long time ago, I don’t even remember. I tried to finish the best I could but the vibe might have been a little off in the end, if I’m making any sense to you. Anyway, a drunk, over-friendly Leighton is the best Leighton :D The only other thing I have to say is that the timing of the fic doesn’t go with the song, because Akon’s Party Animal was released_   _after the Gossip Girl premier party was held, but I chose to keep it. I hope you will ignore this little discrepancy and enjoy it nonetheless. Also, here are the pics which mostly inspired it._

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_(edits not mine, of course)_

[…]

Josh Schwartz’s private penthouse suite is getting awfully cozy; warm, scantily clad bodies swing around in a stupor induced by alcohol and magnified by pot, the air thick with a half acrid, half cloyingly sweet smoke of cigarettes and marijuana joints, and for the first time that evening you feel that maybe the tuxedo wasn’t such a great idea, after all. The initial volley of affluent praise is over, and the admiring glances are lost in a drunken haze. Your thin white shirt is sticking to your back beneath the tux jacket, and perspiration beads the back of your neck, hair sticking to it in dark golden clumps. You sigh, gather your hair off your neck and over one shoulder and swirl your lukewarm coke which Josh unearthed from one of the kitchen cabinets after you absolutely refused to touch any form of alcohol.

You are tired — of the latest dance beats blasting from the high tech speakers strategically placed all over the place, the bodies milling together, practically fusing into each other in the center of the large room, of dancing in five-inch heels, and the bass that is thrumming out of the speakers and vibrating through the floor and how it is making the soles of your feet hum painfully. You would leave in a heartbeat, but the list of Leslie’s express instructions included not setting foot out of the Gossip Girl premiere party without Josh Schwartz’s permission, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to come any time soon. Sometimes it’s just a pain to follow your rep’s instructions, but what else can a girl do so early in her career? So you take another swig of the lukewarm cola and grimace at the awful taste. You’re sure it’s past its health date.

An increase in the level of noise from the center of the room makes you look up in time to see a totally out-of-it Chace hoist an equally stoned and hysterically giggling, precariously swaying Leighton up on one of the tables, amidst cheers and shouts. Leighton’s spangly black and silver dress is hanging off one shoulder and as she dances drunkenly on the table, taking long swigs directly from the bottle of Absolut in her hand, the already obscenely short dress rides further up her thighs. You don’t realize that you’re clenching the can of coke hard enough to dent it until some of the warm liquid spills over on your hand as you watch an inebriated Ed lie down on the table and gaze up Leighton’s legs rapturously.

You clench your jaw and look away, curbing an urge to stride towards the center of the room, yank the brunette down and drag her out of here, but while this certainly is not the way you have your fun, you don’t want to be a party-pooper for these guys. So you drink your awful, possibly expired cola and try to drown the spikes of anger that rise in your chest every time Akon intones ‘Party Animal’ in his nasal whine. But apparently you’re not the only one who thinks Leighton’s had enough, because this time when you look up you see Josh dragging a drunkenly protesting Leighton towards you.

“Hey kiddo,” he smiles at you, tipsy but not over the edge like the girl swinging in his arms, and he isn’t even all that older than you but whatever.

“Hey,” you say, standing up and reaching out a hand to steady Leighton.

“Do me a favor and take her home,” Josh deposits Leighton in your arms. “I think she’s had enough, and the guys are getting a little … rough.”

The two of you glance at the center of the room where the table has now been occupied by Chace who, having acquired a cowboy hat from somewhere, is getting ready to do an impromptu striptease.

Your arms tighten reflexively around Leighton who lets out a high-pitched giggle, grabs the lapels of your tuxedo jacket and burrows her head into your neck. You ignore the ginormous butterflies that have suddenly started fluttering in the pit of your stomach and nod at Josh.

“You’re a good kid, Blakey.” He pats your cheek before turning back to the party.

You watch him go, and then sigh and look at the beautiful mess in your arms - dark, silken hair escaping from the elaborate updo in damp curls, flushed cheeks, pupils blown wide, lipstick kissed away by (you feel a pang) God knows who, hips gyrating along with the current beat against yours provocatively, arms encircling your waist, fever warm hands splayed on your back.

“What am I going to do with you, Leight?”

***

You don’t drink, can’t even remember the last time you touched alcohol but as you steer her gently but firmly towards the exit you feel kinda whoozy yourself, and you wish you hadn’t refused when Josh pressed that champagne flute on you for the first (or fourteenth) time — maybe a little Dutch courage would have helped. You smile at your own train of thought. Dutch courage, indeed.

She snuggles up to you during the elevator ride, her vodka saturated breath warm against the pulse point just above your collar-bone which is jumping along with your racing heart, and you almost squeak out loud when she stands a little straighter and her lips land right on top of it. It must be a coincidence, you tell yourself, because you don’t think Leighton is coordinated enough to do these kinds of things right now. Yes, coincidence, if coincidences have soft, pink, sinfully warm lips which bestow hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses over jumping pulse points, and come in drunk and delectable-looking little packages of five-foot-five, doe-eyed brunettes.

A sigh inadvertently escapes your lips as she clutches fistfuls of your shirt, half-pulling it out of the waistband of your pants, and that is when you hear the angry huffs and reproachful mutterings. You open your eyes and find yourself in the center of an elevator full of people whose wrathful gazes and half-muttered views about the stray, corrupt and shameless youth of today are directed straight at you, and seriously, when did that happen? Where did all these people come from?  _When_ did they come? You find yourself going beetroot red, and thankfully, just then, the elevator dings open and deposits you into the lobby. You trip out, firmly holding her hand, before anyone else can move.

***

Standing at the curb, trying to hail a cab that night is something you think you’ll always count amongst the most difficult things you’ve had to do in your life. And that is  _before_  you get into the cab and the whole meaning of the word ‘difficult’ changes for you

She’s draped all over you, and in the cramped taxi you’ve managed to find, you don’t know where to put your arms and legs because every position you imagine is just as incriminating as the one you’re in, not to mention the sniggering smile and the gratuitous winks the cabbie is dropping in your direction — sweet Christ, you would infinitely prefer it if he dropped you off in the middle of the road for engaging in inappropriate behavior in his cab.

Halfway through and his O-boyo-boyo-boy-you’re-gonna-get-some-tonight winking becomes too much for you and you squirm under her weight, trying to sit straighter.

Leighton slaps your shoulder lightly. “Hold still,” she says, and then as if to emphasize her point, she moves her arms up your body, further unsteadying the two of you, and cups your face.

“Oh, crap,” is all you can manage, because one of your arms is holding her waist to prevent her from falling, and the other one is holding the back of the passenger seat to prevent the  _both_  of you from falling on to the dirty cab floor. Not that there’s much space there.

“Leight,” you say, even though you have a feeling that reasoning with her right now is totally in vain. “Leight, no—”

“Shh!” she says, just as you expected, and moves, tangling your legs even further.

“Leighton—” You try again, and this time she doesn’t bother with words, or sounds, just cups your face harder and lowers her own face until her lips land squarely on yours. And, well, damn. It is so hard to dissuade her that for the time being you give up and rather guiltily enjoy the feeling of her flush against you. It doesn’t take long before you drown the feelings of guilt and return that kiss.

You’re broken out of this bliss by the discreet coughing of the very gleeful cabbie. “We’re here, miss. But I could go around the block a coupla times, if you want,” he sniggers. You consider smashing your elbow in his face but it is buried beneath her so you give up on that idea.

“No, thanks,” you say coldly. “We’ll be getting off here. Come on, Leight.”

“Nooooo,” she whines. “Do we have to?”

“Yes, we have to!”

How you get her out of the cab and onto the curb is an entirely different and rather difficult story. You pay the leering cabbie and turn to find her shivering with cold. You shake your head before taking off your tuxedo jacket to wrap it around her shoulders. You somehow manage to drag her up the steps of her apartment building and into the elevator which is thankfully empty. It doesn’t stop her from draping herself all over you but there must be a God in heavens or something, because she’s starting to nod with sleep.

So it is with great care and a lot of soothing words you lay her down on her bed, exchange her sparkly, spangly dress for a soft white T-shirt. She hiccups a little as you tuck her in and when you get up to leave you find her holding your hand.

“Don’t go, Blakey,” she says and who in the world can use that little pout, those slightly slurred vowels, those doe eyes, and make your heart melt into a puddle of goo except for Leighton?

So after getting out of that god-awful tux (thank heavens) and getting into one of her shirts, and against your better judgment you end up beside her in her bed. But as she turns towards you, snuggles into you, it somehow seems worth it.

You sigh happily as you finally close your eyes.


End file.
